


The Path of the Bull

by EinahSirro



Series: The Lion and the Bull [5]
Category: Troy (2004)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, M/M, Oral Sex, Reincarnation, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 08:56:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21473392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: Achilles changed his destiny by loving Hector; now he wants to change Hector's destiny, every single time. But Hector seems trapped in a pattern, and Achilles will not stand for it. As he continues forward, he grows ever more powerful, but his Hector's situations grow ever more dire. Nothing is more stubborn than a Greek god in love with a mortal, however. The chase continues.
Relationships: Achilles/Hector (Greek and Roman Mythology), Achilles/Hector (Troy 2004)
Series: The Lion and the Bull [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1513298
Comments: 7
Kudos: 47





	1. Prologue

“Why couldn’t I heal him?” Achilles demanded of his mother. His head was down, rather like Hector’s, and Thetis wondered if her son was picking up his lover’s mannerisms as the years went by. His blue eyes were fastened rather resentfully on her, and his lower lip was in full pout. He clearly blamed her for the weakness of his powers.

They sat by the fire pit in the garden near the colonnade. It rather amazed Achilles that the citadel never changed. Thetis had found it in a state of encroaching collapse when she took the island, and in the centuries she’d lived there, neither had it repaired nor allowed it to decay further. Apparently it was at just the perfect stage of faded grandeur to appeal to her penchant for the picturesque.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, giving her son’s long, tangled locks a pet. They were still damp from the sea, whence he had arrived just hours ago.

He stared at her, surprised. Achilles could not remember his mother ever not having an answer.

She added, “Perhaps Hector was never meant to live to old age. You must be grateful for the years you get.”

He turned back to stare into the fire, clearly dissatisfied with her answer. “It was just like the first time. He had a pain in his chest, but this time, I put my hands on him, and I tried to heal him.”

“And you couldn’t?” 

“I thought I had. He said the pain went away. He smiled at me—“ Achilles started to tear up and shut his mouth immediately. He concentrated on his breathing, and swallowed.

“And then he went to sleep,” Thetis guessed. Her tone did not evince much sympathy, although she had it. But it was more of a puzzle to be solved for her. Her fondness for Hector was genuine, as was her commitment to her son’s happiness. Thus, solving the puzzle seemed more important to her than showing pity.

Achilles nodded. His legs were drawn up and his muscular arms wrapped around them. He looked a bit hunched. His mind was full of Hector’s last smile, that wide, sweet smile, patient… his eyes had been drooping and tired, and his hair was just turning gray. 

Perhaps he should be grateful that the end was peaceful, like before. But all he could think was that it was too soon, far too soon, and he had believed that this time he could prevent it. When his beloved drifted off to sleep, Achilles had lain at his side, petting his graying curls, and feeling the pleasure of knowing he could protect the kindest, most decent soul he’d ever met. When he’d suddenly become aware of the unnatural stillness of the form in his arms—he shook his head. He didn’t want to break down right now. He wanted to understand.

“Can’t you strengthen my powers?” He asked suddenly.

“Not really,” his mother answered calmly. “You might strengthen them by using them more, but what you have is what you have.”

He turned back to the fire. “I want to find the next Hector,” he stated.

“I know,” she said. “But we missed the sunset. You’ll have to wait till tomorrow. Drink your tonic I gave you and get some sleep. Try and think of what you’ll do differently this time,” she advised, and then she retired for the night.

Achilles drank, and brooded. The night grew cool, and looking up at the stars, he could see Orion. That was always comforting. But the pain in his chest didn’t lessen. What he did not tell his mother, what he wasn’t even sure how to express, was that when Hector died the second time, Achilles found himself weeping not just for him, but for the first Hector, the original Prince of Troy, all over again. Hector as Philip had been slightly different… less assured, less socially polished, more distant somehow. He loved Philip just as ardently, but Philip had carved a separate identity for himself in Achilles’ mind.

Hector the Prince had seen Achilles as an equal; Hector the Monk had never quite gotten over the uncertainty of his position, and had felt that he brought little of value to their partnership. Achilles had power, produced gold, and was his protector and keeper. He supported his beloved in his forays into local politics, and in his efforts to influence the church in their area. But Hector as Philip was a bit damaged from his neglect as a child, and no amount of swordplay erased those early wounds. And somehow, when he died, Achilles found himself in more pain than he’d expected: he mourned them both.

Now he was already chafing to go find his Hector again, because he was certain that wherever Hector was, he was going to come to a point where danger loomed, and if there was no Achilles to save him, then what?

Achilles finished his drink and went to his room with a single candle. His mother had directed the maidservants to clean and air his bed, but he paced around it, eyes blank. He hated sleeping alone. He hated even 24 hours without his Hector. He prowled out onto the balcony, stared out to the sea, and up to the stars, and back to his room again. And back out again. And back in again.

Finally, he saw the glow of another candle approaching down the colonnade to enter his room.

“Alright, enough of this,” his mother said calmly. “Lie down.”

Achilles lay down, eyes directed up at her hopefully. 

She put her cool hand on his forehead and pressed it. “Sleep.” She said, and he lost consciousness immediately. She straightened up and looked down at him for a moment. “Well, that still works,” she said to herself, and retreated back to her own suite.


	2. Arrival

Achilles awoke on the unfamiliar shore and lay for a bit, looking around at the landscape. He felt he was a bit further north this time. It was cooler. The water was as brilliant a turquoise as at home, the rocky landscape as beautiful as Greece, but more in keeping with the climate where he and Hector-as-Aeneas had founded New Ilium. Not the hot sands and muddy river of Osroene, certainly. But the beach itself was comprised more of small rocks than sand, and was not a soft bed for a naked man.

Rising, Achilles grabbed up one of the gray, jagged little rocks, pinched it gold, and went about the first order of business: finding clothes. He saw a few fishing boats beached up the coast and approached them, unconcerned with his nudity. Fishermen tended to be salty old fellows with a good sense of humor.

“Any of you bastards speak Greek?” He called to the dozen or so men watching in astonishment as a muscular blond god wearing not a stitch came prowling up the beach and approached their boats.

“Look at this, will you?” One said to his friends.

Achilles smiled, spread his arms, and turned slowly in a circle so they could admire him from all angles.

The fishermen broke out in laughter, and he got a smattering of applause.

“What happened to you then?” Asked another.

Achilles shook his head ruefully. “I don’t remember a thing, so it must have been good.”

They laughed again, but the laughter turned to whoops of admiration when he offered the gold pebble in return for some clothing.

“I got some clothes in the cottage over yonder, but nothing befitting that gold,” one offered. 

“I’m in no position to be choosy,” Achilles said with another winning smile, and the fishermen chortled to each other that he was certainly correct about that. He listened to their remarks with interest. Some spoke Greek, but several spoke a language he did not recognize.

Achilles followed the one fellow to his cottage and obtained simple, roughly woven robes, long and of a color indistinct and drab, tied with a rope belt. The fisherman also offered him some rather scuffed sandals that were worn, but had good laces that went up to the knee. He looked like a servant, but he supposed it didn’t matter. What mattered next was arming up, and the fellow was able to spot him a good knife, but no sword. 

“Where are we, then,” Achilles asked casually, accepting a cup of wine well diluted with fresh water.

“Salona!” The fisherman said, as if it should be obvious.

“Greece?” Achilles prodded.

“Illyria,” the fellow corrected proudly. “But the Romans call it—“ he waved his hands a bit, mockingly, “Dalmatia!”

“Dalmatia,” Achilles said, echoing the tone. “Not part of Greece or Rome, then?”

“Oh no, it’s had its own king for a bit now. Nepos, he calls himself, and his villa is—“ the fisherman beckoned Achilles to follow him from his simple hut out to where an impressive home squatted high over the sea on a bit of jutting coastline.

“You’re fishing right under the king’s palace?” Achilles asked.

“Well, it’s for him we’re doing it. He’s having a bit of a feast tonight, and we’ve a catch to haul up there.”

Achilles nodded, mostly in appreciation that the sea god had once again deposited him as close as he could.

“I suppose this king is in danger,” he guessed.

The fisherman narrowed his eyes. “Don’t know about that,” he said with a trace of suspicion.

“Oh? No foreign kings invading, no armies on the move?” Achilles asked in surprise.

“No. In fact, if anyone goes on the move, it’ll be him,” the fisherman pointed up at the villa. “Young men in Salona are being trained up as we speak. My nephew’s one of them, don’t tell me, I know.”

Achilles tipped his head thoughtfully. He needed to know more about this king.

“What does this Nepos look like? Tall? Dark hair? A warrior?”

“No, not at all. Small, thin, big nose, droopy eyes. Ugly thing,” the fisherman grinned. “Uglier than me, even.”

Achilles gave a snort of amusement, and finished his cup. “Do you need help hauling that fish?”

His new friend lifted his hoary eyebrows. “Wouldn’t mind if you did!”

The blond warrior shrugged. “Least I could do,” he said, never minding he’d paid a nice bit of gold for this servant’s garb.

“I’ll bring round the wagon,” the fisherman said, eager to take advantage of this offer before the young god remembered he’d already more than paid for the hospitality he’d received.


	3. Julius Nepos

Victor put his chalice down on the massive dinner table gently, but Ovida, stocky and balding, slammed his down with a curse. “We have no business going against Odoacer! It’s not our fight!”

Nepos leaned against a nearby column, arms crossed stubbornly. Behind him, the open villa’s balcony looked out over the piercing blue sea. “He killed Orestes, he displaced young Romulus… if no one stands against him, he will look here for his next conquest, I guarantee it.”

“If he comes, of course we fight. But there’s no need to bring the fight to him for his convenience!” Ovida was red in the face.

Nepos gave Victor a hurt stare from under his drooping lids. “I suppose you agree with him.”

Victor drew in his breath deeply, but let it out gently. “I hate to see our local men go across the seas to fight. If fighting must be done, let Odoacer be the one to travel.” He spoke calmly, but inside he was agitated. Nepos had initially seemed like a king who cared about his people. But his increasing interest in righting the wrongs of Rome disturbed Victor.

“These struggles never end, you know,” Victor added evenly, fixing his dark eyes on the ruler. “There will always be these intrigues and overthrows. Best to stay out of them if possible.”

Nepos nodded. “Yes, we stay out of them, and stay out of them, while madmen consolidate their power. And one day we’ll awaken to find a fleet of them on our shores, having grown mighty because no one dares challenge them.”

Victor turned his head away for a moment. That argument had some merit, he had to admit. But Ovida was staring at him as if to remind him: _We agreed, we do not want the men of Dalmatia dying for Romans. _

“When the other generals come tonight,” Ovida said firmly to Nepos, “You’ll find they agree with me.”

One of Nepos’ servants entered just then, apologetically and quietly. He whispered something to Nepos, who reared back and looked at him quizzically.

“Who is he?”

The servant shook his head expressively and shrugged.

“Does he say where he gets that information?” The king asked.

The servant shook his head again. Before he could explain further, all four men in the room were startled to see a muscular young man dressed in rough garb, like the lowest of servants, but with long, wild blond hair, and a fine young face like a god, enter the room.

The stranger’s glance around the room was lightning fast, and landed on Count Victor. A slight smile curved his lips as he regarded the other man with limpid blue eyes for a long moment. Then he turned to Nepos.

“I have reason to believe your life is in danger,” he said calmly. His Latin was formal, and bore a faint accent of indefinable origin. His manner was educated and confident. “I offer myself as a guard.”

Nepos stared at this audacity in bewilderment. “I have guards,” he began.

The blond apparition spread his hands expressively. “Then how did I get in here?” He pulled a wicked looking knife from his belt and without warning, whipped it through the air toward Ovida. It planted itself in the wood of the high backed chair just beside his head.

Victor and Ovida jumped to their feet in alarm. Ovida pulled his knife from his belt and then held it uncertainly in his white-knuckled fist.

The stranger smiled. “I think you need me.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Ovida, whose ruddy face had paled significantly, asked cautiously, “Who sent you?”

“The sea-god,” Achilles answered honestly. They stared at him. “He’s family,” he added modestly.

Victor skirted him carefully and went to the double doors leading from the dining hall to the main entrance. Achilles followed him, which seemed to alarm the taller man. Keeping a close eye on this bizarre apparition, Victor went to the heavy front doors of the estate that opened to a large, circular drive and found, to his increasing dismay, that both guards just inside the door were unconscious on the tiled floor at their posts. They’d crumpled like bundles of rags.

“What have you done?” He turned his head to the blond warrior who watched him with a slight smile.

When no answer came, Victor’s temper warmed. He turned his wide shoulders toward the fellow and lowered his head warningly. 

“What have you done,” he repeated, glowering sternly from beneath his straight dark brows, eyes direct. 

To his chagrin, the muscular young god smiled upon him a strange mixture of affection and amusement, and perhaps a tinge of sorrow, which made Victor uneasy indeed.

“I told them to sleep.”

Victor stared at him uncomprehendingly. 

“It’s just a trick I learned from my mother. Shall I show you?” He reached toward Victor in a playful manner, but the Count was in no mood for play. He pulled his sword quickly from its sheath and brandished it with a most serious demeanor.

The blond spread his open hands to show they were empty. “I’m unarmed.”

Victor raised his brows. “I’m not,” he said pointedly. 

The stranger smiled upon him as if delighted. 

Victor waited to see if the fellow would make any sudden moves, but he turned away and walked back toward the dining hall. 

“They’ll wake in a few hours,” he called back. 

Before he got to the doors, they flung open again and Ovida joined them, his cloak folded over his arm. “So you’re here to guard Julius Nepos,” he stated, and stalked past him to join Victor. “You appear here, dressed as a servant, you say the sea-god brought you, you have no weapons except that knife, you—what did you do to the guards??”

“They’re asleep,” Victor told him with a significant look toward the blond warrior.

“You did this?” Ovida gestured to the guards. One of them rolled into a more comfortable position and snuffled a bit before lapsing back into stillness.

The blond regarded them both with inscrutable blue eyes.

“Do you have a name?” Victor asked cautiously.

The fellow opened his mouth, hesitated, and then said, “Call me the Apamean, for now.”

Ovida and Victor looked at one another.

“Why would you want to guard Nepos?” Ovida asked suddenly.

“I don’t. But he matters… to someone who is important to me.”

Ovida nodded knowingly. “Zeno.”

“Theodoric,” Victor suggested.

The Apamean smiled. “Tell me about this dinner tonight. Who will be coming that might want to harm your king?”

Ovida snorted, “All of them. You might want to go get your knife back out of my chair.” He turned to Victor. “I’ve a list in my quarters of everyone expected tonight. Let’s go through it. Mayhap we can decide who the most likely threat is.”

Victor gestured to the Apamean. “Are we trusting him now?” He asked incredulously.

Ovida glanced back at the blond who stood watching them so intently. “If you don’t trust him, I suggest you run him through right now,” he told the younger man flippantly. 

Victor stared at his compatriot, who shrugged and pointed to the stairs. “I’m going up to change for dinner. I suggest you do the same,” he stated, and did just that.

Victor found himself alone in the entrance hall, with the blond, godlike stranger in the servant’s robes gazing at him, still as a statue. They regarded each other tensely for a moment.

“Who are you?” Victor finally asked, in a voice so quiet, it suggested that he knew the answer would be portentous, somehow. 

The blond glanced around them and noticed a wooden bowl of seashells on a long, thin table up against the wall near him. He turned and took a small shell, and approached Victor with the shell in his hand.

Victor backed away from him but found himself backed up against the stairwell.

The Apamean smiled and held up the shell. It was just a small, pink seashell, Victor could see. The mysterious fellow closed the shell in his hand for a moment, and then opened it again, offering it to Victor. Now it was gold.

Lowering his sword, Victor took the shell in his fingertips and stared at it, wide-eyed, for a moment. Finally, he raised his eyes to the mysterious visitor. _“What _are you?”

The blue eyes simply stared into his own unwaveringly, and the full lips curved into a secret smile. 

Finally, the stranger said softly, “Are you going to change for dinner too, or are you staying down here to protect your king from me?” 

“You have no weapon,” Victor found himself lowering his voice to match.

“I _am_ a weapon,” the other returned, and his stare never wavered.

Prickles of heat ran down Victor’s arms and back, and across his forehead and cheeks. Suddenly it seemed like his own breathing was difficult and labored. Worry broke out all over him.

Suddenly, the blond lowered his eyes as if consciously releasing the other man. He backed away a few steps. “Keep the shell.”

Then he turned and disappeared back into the dining room.

Victor sheathed his sword, his dark eyes fixed and baffled. He waited for a moment to see if Nepos would call for him, but no sound came from the dining room and finally, he decided to go upstairs and change. If the stranger had wanted to kill Nepos, he’d have planted the knife in him immediately instead of in Ovida’s chair. 

Presumably.


	4. Ovida

Achilles was pleased. His new Hector was very much like the original—although it occurred to him even as he thought it that Prince Hector of Troy was not the original, that there must have been Hectors going back and back eons, and he’d missed them. He came to a halt in the empty dining room—Nepos was nowhere to be seen—and contemplated this with sudden horror. His Hector must have died a thousand deaths in the years before Achilles had come to know him. A kind of black smoke filled his chest at the thought of a destiny or fate that would allow for such a thing. His lip curled in a bit of a sneer. If anyone was in charge of this endless tide of events, they must be truly emotionless.

Then he inhaled through his nose and shook the thought away. What he needed now was weaponry, and looking around, he was amused to see a display of swords mounted on the wall farthest from the dining table. What a handy thing for a king to have: enemies over for dinner, and a supply of murder weapons conveniently located for them. 

Achilles went to the chair to retrieve his own knife and yanked it from the wood to slide it back into his belt. He supposed that guarding Nepos was his duty for now, and then it was a matter of finding out what was going wrong in his Hector’s world, and seeing if he, Achilles, could right it.

But he wasn’t hopeful. He hadn’t been able to save the city of Troy, nor the abbey. Most of Bardaisan’s scrolls about his travels in India had gone up in smoke, and most of the monks had been murdered by the Roman soldiers. Even poor old Julius. Only Lucien and Philip had gotten away. 

However, Achilles reminded himself, he was the reason for the few that escaped. He was the reason for Hector’s escape. Most likely his role here, too, was to see that Hector escaped. Still, it seemed to him that once again, he had the opportunity to salvage his beloved’s world, and stay to see him happy within it. He was certainly willing to try.

“Nepos,” Achilles called, deciding that if he was going to protect the king, he should consult with him about this dinner tonight. He walked around the hall for a moment, seeing no one. He glanced out on the balcony. No one. This villa was large, and apparently complex. He’d need to know the lay-out.

Meanwhile, there was a large bowl of grapes on the massive dinner table, and Achilles helped himself.

To his pleasure, it was not long before the double doors opened again and his Hector re-appeared following the balding, red-faced general, who had a piece of paper in his hand.

“Alright, Victor, let’s look this over before they arrive,” he said.

_Victor,_ thought Achilles with pleasure. That was very nice. So similar to Hector, and such a triumphant connotation. _Victor. _

He watched his Hector shoot him a wary look from under his brows, and took a moment to admire his beloved in this new habitat. He wore a red shawl over his white tunic, a color not common in their previous lives, with his sword strapped over both. He was clean-shaven, and his curls were cut rather short and brushed back from his eyes and temples, which was not a style Achilles disliked at all. It displayed the lines of his powerful neck and the distinctive cut of his jaw.

Ovida pulled out a chair, threw the paper down on the table, and turned to look for a servant. “Where is the fellow—here, bring some wine.”

Victor pulled out a chair, but stopped when Ovida sat down and abruptly said, “Here, what’s that?”

“What?”

Ovida stood again and looked under the dinner table, and then backed away with a cry.

“Ah! Ah! He’s dead! He’s dead! Ah… no…. You!!” He pointed an accusing finger at Achilles. “You! You! You killed him!!” He turned to Victor. “He killed him!” Then he turned back to Achilles, pointing again. “You did it right under our noses!”

Achilles narrowed his eyes at the shouting fellow, and then he and Victor both bent and looked under the wide table. 

There indeed was Julius Nepos, lying curled on his side. His robes had a considerable amount of blood on them, although not so much as to suggest his death had been a lingering one. 

The warrior squatted down in consternation and stared. Not much blood meant a stab to the heart. Gut wounds bled more, this he knew from long experience. 

Slowly, mind racing, Achilles stood again to find Victor straightening to stare at him in livid, horrified betrayal. His face displayed shame and self-disgust, too, as if he blamed himself for trusting, even for just a few moments, in this blond stranger.

Lips tight with sickened fury, Victor drew his sword again and Ovida pointed at Achilles. “Kill him! Kill the treasonous bastard!”

Calmly, Achilles tipped his head and gazed at the red-faced general. His beady eyes and angry mouth were reminiscent of a clean-shaven Menelaus. 

“Where is your knife?” Achilles asked him.

Victor hesitated uncertainly.

“What??” Ovida barked.

“You had one when I entered the hall. You drew it. Mine is here in my belt, and I don’t have a spot of blood on me. Yours is gone, and you’ve changed your robes.”

There was a charged silence, and then the warrior nodded in comprehension.

“That was rather impressive,” Achilles remarked dispassionately. “You must have stabbed him the moment Victor and I left the room to check on the guards.”

He turned to Victor. “I am sorry. I didn’t kill your king, but I’m sorry I didn’t prevent it. It didn’t occur to me that the threat was coming from someone he trusted. It’s not usually the case, in my experience.”

Now Victor looked caught in a horrible conundrum. His eyes, large and stunned, turned from Achilles to Ovida and back.

Ovida stared at Victor with an aura of unmistakable hostility. “You’d better decide who you believe, friend. Someone you’ve known for years, or a stranger dressed as a servant who came from nowhere.” He pointed at Achilles again. “Kill him.”

Victor straightened and took a step back from both of them. “Why don’t you kill him, General Ovida?”

Ovida was silent.

“Where is your knife? You always have it with you,” Victor continued, his brows taking on that familiar cast of anxiety as his gaze darted over the general.

Ovida turned without a word and strode to the wall on which the weaponry was mounted. With one stocky arm, he snatched a weapon off the wall and turned to face them. Achilles yanked his knife from his belt and held it ready. On impulse, he moved around the table to place himself protectively between Ovida and Victor.

By the changing look on the general’s face, Achilles knew he’d guessed correctly what the bastard’s ultimate intentions had been.

“You were going to murder Victor as well, and then say he’d killed the king, weren’t you?” Achilles said.

Ovida ignored him and addressed Victor. “You’ve known me for years. I disagreed with Nepos, but I counted on the other generals to talk to him tonight, to talk him out of this aggression toward Rome. I wouldn’t kill him. This stranger here, he’s our killer.” 

Behind Achilles, Victor was silent, clearly very uncertain.

“And he’s going to get me next if you don’t strike,” Ovida predicted, eyeing the knife ready in Achilles’ hand.

“I suggest you walk out of here,” Achilles said. He didn’t want to kill the fellow for fear it would only convince his Hector that Achilles had murdered his king.

Ovida lost his patience. “Can’t you see he’s a trained assassin?! Take him!!” 

Achilles shook his head slightly. “I’m willing to bet that Count Victor has never stabbed a man in the back in his life. Count Ovida, however—“ By the inhale behind him, he knew he’d tapped a vein of truth. “Walk out. Walk out and tell the guards whatever you want, but walk out.”

Ovida edged toward the door. “I think I’ll do just that,” he said grimly. “When I return, Count Victor, I hope to find you alive… and willing to believe the man you’ve known since Ravenna.”

Achilles and Victor both watched him until he exited the dining hall and went in search of guards who were still awake. Achilles immediately tucked his knife away, not wanting to further alarm his prince, and turned to face him. Victor still held his sword, and looked no more willing to trust Achilles than Ovida, but the warrior simply walked away, around the table, and toward the balcony.

“I didn’t kill your king, and I think your friend is very dangerous.” Achilles said, stepping out onto the balcony to look down. It wasn’t a far drop. “I think you should come with me,” he told Victor.

Victor looked at him as if he were mad, and then bent to peer under the table again at the silent, still body of the late king. Then he straightened and his gaze went from the door, to the balcony. He clearly did not know whom to believe.

“Come with me,” Achilles urged.

Victor shook his head, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Very well. In that case, you had better support Ovida’s claim that I killed your king, because if you don’t, you’ll find you’re next,” Achilles told him seriously. “Whatever you do, don’t be alone with him.”

Victor cast him a look of speechless emotion, his eyes large and deep.

Achilles gave him a long, hungry look. “You’ll see me again,” he promised, and launched himself off the balcony, dropping agilely to the ground and moving quickly away from the villa and into the wooded area nearby. He hoped his Hector could play politics well enough to keep himself safe until Achilles could plan his next move.


	5. Josip

Victor made ready to leave his father’s villa and return to the military barracks in Salona. What clothing and personal items he needed were packed and already in transport by trusted servants in the horse-drawn cart. He himself would take the chariot shortly, and no doubt pass them on the road.

The murder of Julius Nepos was now a week past. The word had spread, the speculation was rampant, and the stories varied widely. The manhunt for a stranger with wild blond hair dressed in ragged servant’s garb had gone far and wide, and had resulted in nothing. The fellow had vanished. The ripple of unrest he left behind, however, was widening.

It was time for Count Victor to leave the countryside and get back to his duties supervising the training of the soldiers in Salona. Who knew what further developments would bring to Dalmatia?

His father Josip, a tall, fragile scholar with distinct political opinions, met him in the dining hall with two chalices of wine. 

“Step out onto the balcony with me,” his father said. “I would have us talk before I see you off.” 

Obediently, Victor followed his father and accepted the chalice with both hands, respectfully. He took a sip and waited. For a moment, neither spoke. They merely gazed out over the trees to the distant view of the cerulean blue sea. They both knew what they were wondering. 

“Perhaps it was Ovida,” the patrician finally admitted slowly. “He certainly was quick to step into the empty shoes and take control. But he may have had his reasons. You know I am no supporter of foreign entanglements.”

Victor’s lips parted, but he hesitated.

“Speak,” his father permitted.

“It would have been better at least to see if Nepos could have been dissuaded. I love Dalmatia,” Victor stated firmly, his eyes black with emotion, “and if anyone had asked, I would have said I would do anything for this country, but… I know now there is one thing I would not do: kill a friend, one unarmed and unsuspecting. Never mind that he was king, and his reign was legal and moral and… well-intentioned—“ 

His father made a slightly deprecating face at that, and Victor nodded in concession.

“—I know, you disagreed with his assessment of our responsibilities to Rome. And you know I agree with you. But he was also a friend. And to stab him in the heart and shove his body under the dining room table, then calmly walk out and act as though nothing has happened… I wouldn’t have believed Ovida capable of that.”

His father tipped his head and regarded his handsome son with a keen eye. “And yet you hesitate to say—at least in private—that the mysterious assassin with salt water in his hair must have done it,” he observed.

Victor looked up, startled and defensive. “No, I… I have not contradicted Ovida’s statements,” he protested.

“Do you honestly think this Apamean in servant’s garb murdered Nepos?” Prodded his father.

Victor looked away. “There was no blood on him. He seemed as startled as I to find the body.”

His father waited quietly.

“He said he did not do it. And there was something about him….” Victor’s voice faded off.

“He must have been an unusual fellow,” Josip observed quietly, “for you to even consider that he might be innocent.”

“Innocent is not a word I’d use,” Victor admitted wryly. There was nothing innocent about those blue eyes.

The patrician smiled briefly, and then looked serious. “If it was Ovida, and if this Apamean’s appearance was no part of his plan, you must ask yourself what he intended to do had the strange fellow not appeared. Who was he going to blame Nepos’ murder on?”

Victor’s eyes grew soft and troubled again. This had certainly occurred to him, and he most definitely remembered the mysterious stranger’s accusation, and how the man had moved to stand between Ovida and him.

“Perhaps he was going to do it later in the evening, when many people were there.”

Josip nodded slowly. “Perhaps. Nevertheless, I think your Apamean might be right about the wisdom of publicly supporting Ovida, and avoiding any further private meetings with him. What is done, is done. I have no wish to see Ovida replaced by anyone else, have you?”

Victor shook his head. But he was not at peace with the thought that his friend may have murdered his king, and may possibly have intended some violence to himself. They had been in agreement! Surely if you plan mayhem, you at least plan it with consideration for those on your side.

Father and son drank their wine in silence for a moment, until they were interrupted by the approach of the major-domo.

“Sire, there is a gentleman arrived to see Count Victor.”

“Who is it,” Victor asked, mildly irritated. He wanted to be on the road shortly.

“He would not give his name.”

Josip looked intrigued. “Is he Dalmatian, or Roman?”

The servant shook his head. “I think he is neither, sire. He speaks Latin, but in a formal way, almost as if he had learned it long ago. His accent I cannot place. But he’s young, and very handsomely dressed. He said to give you this,” the servant held out his hand, and Victor opened his palm, curious.

His curiosity changed to a strange, frightened, burgeoning excitement when he saw what the servant dropped into his hand; it was a golden seashell.

“It’s him,” he said to his father, eyes wide. There was no need for his father to ask who he meant.

Victor clutched the seashell in his hand and thrust the chalice without ceremony at the servant. Then he strode past him, through the house to the front hall.

Josip’s gray brows rose to see his son’s eagerness. It was unlike Victor to practically run though the house to meet a visitor, and yet, the look on his face had held a combination of wild hope mixed with anxiety. He followed his son through the house, thinking he would very much like to see the man who had so caught his most serious boy’s attention.

In the entrance awaited a strong young man with smooth blond hair that fell in waves made soft with expensive creams, and skin that glowed like oiled gold. His right arm was bare and muscular, but otherwise he was swathed in voluminous robes, finely woven of purest white and deepest indigo. The leather of the straps and belts that held his sword was thick and embroidered. He wore no jewels, but the hilts of his sword and dagger both were embellished with such elaborately carved silver, they were a form of jewelry themselves. On his feet were soft leather sandals with enviably thick soles and straps; he was dressed as if for court, but beneath the luxurious robes, the hem of a simpler garb—finely woven, white and clean, but more fit for travel—was discernible. He stood as still as a statue, as if waiting to be gazed upon. 

Josip entered to see his son frozen some steps away, staring at him as if staring into the sun. Josip drifted closer to join him, eyes taking in this vision of civilized wealth and animal power. There was something not quite human about this man, the father felt. For a moment, no one spoke. It was a moment for formal remarks of introduction or welcome, and the elaborate rituals of greeting, but silence reigned.

Then the apparition, who had eyes only for Victor, said quietly, “Where are you going?”

“Salona,” Victor answered in the same soft tone, as if in a trance.

“Not to the palace,” the blond said warningly.

“Not as such… the barracks are in the south annex. My offices are there. I lodge there when I’m in town.” Victor’s voice was practically a whisper.

The stranger nodded, apparently satisfied. “I’ll accompany you.”

Victor simply breathed through parted lips in response, his wide eyes drifting over the robes and hair.

“You look different,” he finally said quietly.

“I hope so,” the stranger finally smiled, and then lifted his hand. “Come. Let’s go.”

Josip registered this exchange with interest. They spoke as if they had been in communication for years, but they stared at each other like hypnotized strangers.

Victor turned dazed eyes to his father. “I must go,” he said simply. “Do I have your blessing?”

Josip put his hands on his boy’s neck and kissed his forehead. “You always do. May fate smile upon you. Take care, and remember what I said.”

The Apamean regarded the father for a moment. “You seem a bit better than the others,” he said in Greek, as if to himself. 

“What others,” Josip asked him, also in Greek.

The stranger looked startled to be understood. “I beg your pardon,” he said politely, but offered no other explanation. Reverting to Latin, he spoke to Victor again. “My horse is outside. I’ll ride beside you.”

Then he went through the door, moving on silent feet.

Victor turned to his father, the question written on his face.

“Yes, I see,” the patrician nodded. “I don’t know either. Do as you see fit and know, at least, that whatever happens, you are not going against my advice, for I have none. There is, as you said, something about him.”

Victor stepped to his father and hugged him tight. Then he drew back, clasped his sire’s hand in gratitude for a moment, and then followed the Apamean out the door.

Achilles was glad to have a couple moments to mount the horse before his Hector emerged from the house. The robes were heavy and awkward, and the ornate saddle unfamiliar. Getting onto the steed’s back and ensuring that his drapery was gracefully displayed required some maneuvering, and he was intent that the image he displayed to his Hector be one of respectability, wealth, and class. The repeated refrain that the killer had been “dressed like a servant” had convinced him that here was a culture that placed a great emphasis on status. 

Thus if he was to convince his count that the Apamean was no regicide, he’d best appear so wealthy as to have nothing to gain by the death of a local ruler. Moreover, he did not wish to fit the description of the mysterious assassin. His hair was distinctive enough that his clothes had best remove suspicion.

However, in some corner of his mind, Achilles also knew that impressing his Hector was simply a delight that never grew old. His hungry soul remembered every time, in every incarnation, that those dark eyes had looked upon him in wonder. Even the terrified way Hector had watched him climb hand over hand up a cliff, or throw a spear, had sent a frisson of joy through him. The way his Philip would lay on him every night, eyes wide, feeling his angel knead the knotted flesh of another scar on his back to increasing smoothness had made him fill with pleasure like wine. 

Now he thrilled to see Victor, his short curls pushed back, step from his father’s villa and look up to see the blond stranger mounted on a shining, dancing bay horse with a silky black mane and tail, sitting confidently with his white and indigo robes draped so elegantly. Just to watch his beloved stand there, his mouth slightly open in admiration, made Achilles ring inside like a golden bell.

“What a beautiful horse,” Victor said ardently, coming forward to caress the steed’s velvety muzzle. 

Achilles glowed with satisfaction at how the horse settled immediately under his Hector’s touch. Some things never changed.

“What’s his name?”

“Darius,” Achilles said hopefully.

“How fine. How apt.” Victor whispered, gaze fixed on the limpid eyes of the beautiful mount as he ran his hands over the satiny neck. Finally, he stepped back. “And what is your name? You’ve never told me.”

“Achilles,” he said proudly. Surely enough time had passed, and they were far from Greece and Troy.

Victor smiled slowly, gazing up at him raptly. “Like in the poem?”

_Poem? Ah, local culture,_ he thought, and nodded. “I suppose. Lead the way, my Lord.”


	6. Salona

The walls around Salona rivaled those of Troy, Achilles thought approvingly as they approached in late afternoon. The city was backed by distant mountains, and the soil they’d traversed was on the dry and inhospitable side. Most of the trees were either small and scraggy, or tall evergreens, thick with green needles, but thin in the trunk.

His Hector saw him look around in assessment. “Not like where you come from?” He called from his chariot.

“No. Well… not so different.” Achilles smiled slightly. 

“Where are you from?” Victor pressed, slowing his horse so they could travel side by side.

“Thessaly,” he admitted.

Victor smiled up at him, that wide, sweet smile he so loved. “Oh, I see. Achilles must be a popular name there.”

Achilles thought about it. Had it been a popular name? “Yes, I suppose, once,” he said, a bit puzzled at the observation.

They drew up to the city gate and Victor gave a wave to the guards, who saluted him deferentially.

As they waited for the gate to open, Victor said, “I was almost named Hector. But my mother decided otherwise. Fortunate for me, wouldn’t you say? Now that we’ve met?” He gave the blond another smile, and then turned his eyes to the opening gate, thus missing his companion’s reaction.

Achilles had frozen, and now stared down at him with an almost stricken look. 

Then the gate opened, and the warrior tore his gaze away and rode through, a burgeoning scowl on his brow. Victor followed him, unaware of the torrent of amazement he’d just unleashed in his companion’s mind.

Salona was much like other cities, and after a few glances around, Achilles sank into thought as he followed his Hector down the cypress-lined boulevard that led toward the palace.

“The annex is on the other side,” Victor told him. “It has entrances separate from the palace, and we can come and go without ever crossing the courtyard or gardens. We even have our own stables.”

Achilles accompanied him silently, his eyes taking in the fortifications around the palace and municipal buildings. The city was well-built, with an eye toward defense.

“How long could this city withstand a siege, do you think?” He asked.

“Not ten years,” Victor said with a quick look of amusement. “But we would survive for, perhaps, three.”

That seemed an odd answer, but Achilles decided he’d wait till they were still and close to ask any more questions. 

Victor led him down a drive that curved around the palace and descended slightly even as it bordered a garden whose rising ground was kept intact by a gradually increasing wall. The effect from the front was of a palace on rising ground, surrounded by spacious gardens. However, when one was on the other side of the wall, the land had been planed away from the wall, and the annex contained within was low and hidden. The palace seemed far above one. Another line of tall cypress trees separated the annex from a large field stretching out beyond, and nearby were the stables.

“That’s where we train,” Victor commented, with a glance toward the field, and pulled up the reins, bringing his chariot to a halt. Several men came from the stables and called out to Victor in their own language. Achilles guessed it was the patois several of the fishermen had spoken. He dismounted and watched the men—soldiers, he presumed—hail the return of their Count.

Victor came forward to greet them with obvious enthusiasm, and there was much embracing, and slapping of arms. Then he returned.

“I won’t keep you out here in the dust, not in those robes,” He said, and his face seemed clear and happy. “Come, I’ll show you into my apartments. You can…” he paused. “I haven’t asked if you have lodgings in Salona already.”

“I don’t.” Achilles said, regarding him thoughtfully. 

Victor nodded, his gaze moving all over the warrior’s face as if trying to read it. “Come then, let’s … have you brought…” He looked at the horse’s saddle, only now seeming to notice the few moderately sized leather pouches affixed to it. “Yes, I see you… let’s bring them in. The men will see to your horse.”

Achilles smiled slightly at his Hector’s awkwardness, but the smile faded as he remembered the cryptic remarks his beloved had made about their names. Could it be that he knew?

The apartments were rather reminiscent of Bardaisan’s in the abbey: polished wood and cool tile, a few heavy tapestries hanging, and furniture somewhere between grand, and merely sturdy. A gentleman’s abode, and comfortable, its appointments were valuable but with no particular pretensions. Rather like Hector himself, Achilles thought with a wistful smile.

Then he turned to Victor, feeling that it was time to press in. “Do you have a guest bedroom?”

Victor hesitated. “No,” he admitted, “But perhaps—“

“Show me your bedroom.” Achilles said, eyes fixed on his host.

Victor seemed to waver for a moment, and then, with that curiously fixed look Achilles knew so well, he led the way past a study and into a decently sized bedroom. It contained a large bed swathed in transparent white veils hanging from a heavy, carved canopy. There was a solid wooden trunk against one wall, and a table and chair against the other. 

Achilles dropped his leather pouches on the trunk, and unhooked his belt and weapons, placing them on the pouches. He shrugged off his robes, laying them there as well. Then he sat on the bed and removed his sandals.

Victor watched him in awkward silence for a moment and then seemed to come to the decision that his guest was preparing to bathe and needed privacy. He turned away but Achilles stopped him with a word.

“Stay.”

His beloved turned back to him, looking for all the world like a man in utter uncertainty.

Achilles lay back on the bed with a sigh of relief at being in naught but a simple tunic again. He would gladly live his life barefoot and naked, but the tunic was an easy enough concession to the sensibilities of others.

“Come. I know you have questions.” He patted the bed next to him. “I have some as well. Lie down. Let us talk together.”

Victor drifted forward almost as if he were in thrall, hesitated, and then removed his sandals and joined his guest, laying on his back and staring stiffly at the canopy overhead.

“Who really sent you?” Victor began, seeming suddenly afraid to look at him. Perhaps he was afraid to see how close they were.

“The sea god.” Achilles said honestly, but with a slight smile on his full lips.

“Be serious.” Victor whispered, his brows crimping up in that tragic way he had.

Achilles hesitated, then admitted. “I came because I knew you were in danger.”

“You said you were there to protect the king.” Victor argued, eyes growing suspicious.

“No. If you think back, I said I had reason to believe he was in danger, and I offered myself as guard. I never said it was the reason I was there.”

Victor looked as though he thought someone was trying to fool him.

“Your friend asked me why I wanted to guard Nepos, and I told him: I didn’t. I was there because he mattered to someone who was important to me. That person is you.” Achilles wasn’t sure it was wise to simply lay out his plans, but Hector was the person Achilles was closest to. Even if he didn’t know it now. 

_Dosed with lethe, _he reminded himself.

“Why am I in danger?” Victor asked.

Achilles sighed. “I don’t know. I only know that where there is a king who is about to lose his kingdom, there you will be, trying futilely to prevent it. And in trying to prevent it, you will put yourself in danger.”

“You say that as though it’s a prophecy,” Victor finally turned his head and looked at him. Achilles rolled to his side to gaze back, adoring the large dark eyes, so deep and intense beneath the straight brows. This short hair, too, brushed back to show the perfectly straight hairline, with just the slightest notch in the center. He was so evenly made, Achilles mused. 

“No. It’s just a pattern,” he finally said.

“So what are you here to do?” Victor was clearly still a bit suspicious of him.

“Help you if I can. Perhaps the fall of your kingdom can be prevented. If not, my goal is to pull you from the wreckage, and let it burn.” He admitted.

His Hector stared at him in consternation. Their heads were very close. Achilles could see the dark eyes searching his face, and he wondered if there was anything familiar about him.

At length, Victor turned to stare off into the canopy again. “But my king is already dead.”

Before Achilles could answer, they heard the rapping of knuckles upon the door at the far end of the suite, and Victor rose and went through the rooms to answer it. Achilles rubbed his face with both hands and sighed again, and then rolled out of the bed to follow. He still did not like his prince out of his sight.

Victor opened the door and a soldier entered. He was not in a uniform, but his bearing, the close cut of his hair, the practical style of his clothing, everything about him was clearly military. He and Victor embraced arms briefly, and then he turned to look at the mysterious blond stranger.

Achilles paid him little mind until the man turned to look at him with large, ice-blue eyes. The shock of unexpected recognition was like cold water over his shoulders.

“…Eudorus?” Achilles asked, stunned.

The startling eyes blinked, and the man said, “No, my Lord, Gaius.”

A wave of dizziness swept over him, and Achilles found himself reaching unsteadily for a chair. He sat down at a nearby table and turned his face away from them both, breathing rapidly. His skin was fairly shivering. In all his years since the fall of Troy, in his travels with Hector-as-Aeneas, with Hector-as-Philip, even unto this moment, he had never encountered another person he recognized.

It stood to reason, of course, that if the constellation of Hector could realign again and again, so must others. But the shock of it! Achilles did not handle surprises well.

For a moment the two Dalmatians were silent, wondering at the Greek’s strange reaction. But he offered no explanation—Achilles rarely did, much like his mother—and finally Gaius turned back to Victor and began speaking in their native tongue.

Achilles turned back to them, suddenly longing to know what was being said. Victor glanced at him, and said, “Let us use Latin.” 

Gauis gave Achilles another look from those ice-colored eyes and gave a courteous nod. “I’m sorry to trouble you so soon upon your arrival, My Lord, but we received word from the General that Rome is on the move.”

“In our direction?” Victor asked in dread.

“Very much so. It seems the Emperor has stated publicly that he cannot ignore the murder of a lawful representative of Zeno, and he considers Dalmatia to be in the midst of an uprising spearheaded by unauthorized agents of Glycerius.”

“Glycerius! He had nothing to do with this,” Victor protested.

“He may have, my Lord. No one knows who sent that assassin, or where the killer was from. He wasn’t local; he had yellow hair. Remember Ravenna? There are more blonds—“ Gaius stopped, and then turned slowly to look again at the mysterious fellow sitting at his commander’s table. 

Achilles looked back at him tensely. These local imbroglios were wearying him already. He should take his Hector in hand, inform him gently that Odoacer, whoever he was, was probably going to burn the place to the ground, and they might as well leave and watch the fire from some comfortable seat.

Victor followed Gaius’ gaze and quickly shut the front door. 

“My Lord,” Gaius said in consternation, and then seemed to have no courage to continue.

“I didn’t kill your king!” Achilles slapped his hands on the table in exasperation. “Although it doesn’t matter now. He’s dead, Ovida is in his place, Odoacer is coming to attack, and he’s going to win, and you’re all going to die. Is there wine?”


	7. Achilles

Night had fallen. Achilles, Gaius, and Victor sat at the table, the remains of the meal pushed to the side. The wine, however, was still flowing. Achilles was toying with his chalice, listening to the other two, and admiring the brazier in the center of the room with its little fire cheerfully blazing in it. That was rather a neat invention, he thought. A moveable fire pit.

“My Lord, you know I trust you implicitly,” Gaius was saying, the wine making him rather emotional. “Even if you told me that it was you, I would accept it! I would never betray you! Nepos was a good man, but we had no need of his aggressive plans. And what’s done is done.”

Victor, rather in his cups as well, curled his lip in distaste. “But it wasn’t me! And I don’t ask that kind of loyalty, Gaius, it’s regicide. There was no call for it! It was not the right answer to the problem. Nepos was a friend.”

“So you’re saying it was Ovida.”

“I’ve never said that. I’ve never said that,” Victor declared, wagging his finger. “I have never once said that.”

“It was Ovida.” Achilles said.

“It was Ovida,” Victor agreed tipsily, “but I have never once said that.”

“Unless it was you.” Gaius said to Achilles, for the third time.

“It wasn’t me.” Achilles answered for the third time. The conversation was ridiculous, but he found himself rather enjoying it. To sit with his Hector and his Eudorus, drinking wine by a fire? It was an experience he’d never imagined having. The only time Hector and Eudorus had met, Hector thought Eudorus was the ferryman, Achilles remembered with a private smile.

“Who is this Odoacer again?” He asked, elbow on the table.

“He’s the Roman Emperor!” Victor said, amazed.

“Who was it before him?” Achilles asked, wondering how much time had gone by.

“Orestes,” Victor and Gaius said together.

“Agamemnon had a son named Orestes,” Achilles remarked absently.

“Agamemnon? Oh yes! From the poem!” Victor nodded. “Oh,” he turned to Gaius. “Guess what his name is?!” He grinned.

“I thought his name was Apamea… or something of that sort.”

“Achilles! His name is Achilles!” Victor said gleefully.

The warrior watched the two men grin at each other for a moment.

“Wait… Is he on our side?” Gaius asked.

“He is!” Victor said, and the two knocked their chalices together and drank.

Achilles narrowed his eyes at them. He would have to ask about this poem.

“How long ago was the emperor Caracalla?” He asked abruptly.

“Who??” Gaius asked.

“That was a long time ago.” Victor told him, nodding. “Long, long time ago.”

“How long?” Achilles asked pointedly.

“Long.” They nodded at him, and then at each other. “Long.”

“Very long.”

“Long. It was long.”

“I heard it was _very_ long.” Gaius said, eyes lighting up.

Both men roared with laughter, and Achilles chuckled a bit at their nonsense. “You two are useless.”

Victor sobered. “My father would know. He’s a scholar. He speaks Dalmatian, Latin, Greek,” he ticked the languages off on his long fingers, “he can read Punic and Paeonian—“

“His father writes books. Didn’t he give you a book of the Roman Emperors?” Gaius remarked.

Victor reared back from the table. “He did! He gave me a stack of books, and I’ve never opened them. I’m a terrible son.” He looked suddenly stricken.

Achilles pointed at him. “You are never a terrible son,” he said firmly. “I assure you. You are never a terrible son.”

His Hector gave him a wistful, beautiful smile. “No?” He asked hopefully.

“No. And what is a book?” Achilles asked.

“You can’t be serious for a minute, can you?” Victor said, his smile turning to a grimace that deepened the corners of his lips in a way that made Achilles suddenly ache to hold him. “Alright, just a moment. I’ll get the book of the Roman Emperors.”

“Get the Homer and Statius too!” Gaius called.

Victor returned with several items in his hands and set them down before Achilles, who put his chalice aside and picked up one of them. It was leather, and rectangular, about the size of a small purse. Fingering it awkwardly for a moment, he finally discovered that one side opened and the other did not. To his astonishment, inside were hundreds of sheaves of parchment, thinner than a scroll, attached somehow to the leather, and covered with words.

Victor was fetching a candle and did not notice the Greek’s puzzlement at this strange contraption, but Gaius was watching, at first with humor, and then with shock. It seemed that Achilles truly did not know what a book was.

Once he’d opened it, however, and the candle was at hand, he clearly knew how to read it. Holding it near the flame, he started perusing the list of Roman Emperors.

“It’s already out of date, you know, because it ends with Severus III.” Victor said, sitting back down.

Gaius, suddenly sober, reached out carefully. “May I?”

Scowling, Achilles handed it to him. Gaius flipped to the end, found Severus III, and said, “So, if I flip backward,” he glanced at Achilles to see that he was paying attention, “like this, I see… Majorian… Avitus… Petronius… Valentinian…”

“Valentinian?” Achilles reached for it, thinking of Philip.

Gaius handed it back and watched as Achilles picked backward, his blond hair falling forward as he leaned over the book intently. Then he looked over at Victor, who was flipping through another book. 

“It’s all in Greek,” Victor said. “I forgot, it’s all in Greek.”

“You read Greek,” Gaius said.

Victor shook his head ruefully. “I disappointed my father in my studies, every single day, I can tell you.” He closed the book and put it aside.

Silence fell.

Gaius took a breath, looked at Achilles from the corner of his eye for a moment, and then shook his head as if at a private thought. “My Lord, I think I’ll go. If the Romans are coming, we should resume training tomorrow.”

Victor was watching Achilles flip backward through the book with increasing speed, his brow creasing more as he turned the pages. Then he glanced up at Gaius. “Yes, you are right. We’ll start again tomorrow.”

“Good night, my Lord.” Gaius turned to Achilles and with sudden seriousness, touched his shoulder lightly. “Good night to you, my Lord.”

Achilles straightened and looked up at him, seeing only Eudorus. He reached out a hand, and Gaius took it. They clasped arms for a moment, and then Gaius retreated, looking suddenly deep in thought.

Achilles returned to the book, flipping and flipping until he finally found Caracalla. It was hundreds of years ago. He stared at the dates, thinking of Philip, and the villa they’d shared with the olive trees, and the church his beloved had frequented. It must be gone. The entire town of Apamea might be gone. He put the book down, feeling sick.

Victor gathered up the plates of food and took them outside. He scraped off the food for the dogs that lounged near the stables, and then left the plates on the porch. The servants could take them in the morning when they cleaned the barracks nearby.

When he returned, Achilles was perusing another book, and now he looked enthralled.

“Oh yes, you can probably read that, can’t you?” Victor commented, looking over his shoulder.

Achilles looked up at him with wide eyes. “This is the poem you mentioned?”

Victor nodded. “It’s very famous. Very old, but…” He took a sip of wine. “You don’t know it?”

Achilles hesitated. “Is it about Troy?”

Victor nodded. “Yes. See, you’ve heard of it. You’ve just forgotten. So… you’re my guest so I think you should have the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch here—“

Achilles turned back to the book. “Take the bed.”

Victor hesitated. “That would not be very hospitable.”

“Take the bed,” Achilles repeated, flipping through the book, looking for his name.

“No, really,” Victor said.

Achilles put down the book, stood up, and put his hand on the other man’s forehead. “Sleep!” He said.

Victor keeled over, limp. Achilles caught him and hoisted him calmly in his arms. Carefully, he carried his love through the suite and laid him on the bed in the moonlight. He undid the leather belt and slid it off him, and then admired him for a moment. He knelt down and kissed those well-cut lips, meaning only a chaste goodnight, but at the touch of them found himself kissing repeatedly and hungrily until he was holding that beloved face in his hands, and drawing the lush lower lip into his mouth to suck on it. Finally, he peeled himself away, breathing deeply, and remembering the book. 

Standing, Achilles paused a moment longer to stroke the black curls lovingly, and admire the look of peaceful contentment on his Hector’s face. “I’ll be removing you from this lost cause before Odoacer comes, just so you know,” he told the sleeping man quietly. Then he made his way back to the dining table, the candles, and the book.

Sitting down, Achilles made ready to read the stories of Agamemnon and Odysseus, Achilles and Hector, Paris and Helen. As he turned the pages, searching for the parts about himself, and Patroclus, and Hector, he remembered the night in the garden of Troy, when an angry young Hector had lowered his head like a bull and lectured him. _ Why did you come across the Aegean? ... For glory. So people will say your name long after you are gone… do you understand what a foolish desire this is? You won’t even know it. You think you’ll hear those stories and poems and songs? You won’t. You’ll be gone!_

He wasn’t gone, he thought with a smile. But Hector was gone, he remembered. The Hector who said that was gone. The Hector who could have read this with him, and snorted and said, “Well, that never happened; what fool wrote this? A huge wooden horse?? I never heard such nonsense!” And tears slid down his face even as he smiled, and blinked several times to clear his sight as he turned the pages.


	8. Max

Victor woke in the morning on his bed, feeling remarkably rested and not at all hurting from the effects of the wine, although he didn’t exactly remember going to bed. He got up and performed his morning ablutions, and then searched his rooms for his guest. His guest was nowhere to be found, but the books were stacked neatly by the tiny melted stubs of the candles. He must have read long into the night, Victor surmised.

Going to the barracks for food, he passed Gaius, and reached out, touching his arm. “Have you seen Achilles?”

The other man nodded. “Took off on his horse this morning, said he was going to look around.”

“Ah. Round up the men after breakfast and we’ll meet on the field. Training swords and javelins,” Victor directed, and Gaius nodded again, moving away. 

Victor looked up at the sky. It was a good day for training, cool and overcast. There was a hint of a breeze, and it felt like rain might come later, but for now, it was a fine morning.

An hour later, the field was a picture of activity. Victor was on his favorite horse, a black monster named Raven, and galloped from one part of the training grid to another, giving directions with a few words to the squad leaders. Those working on formations should hold the lines straighter. Those working on close combat must bring their feet in closer, lunge, lunge! Those hurling the javelins must use the muscles down here—he slapped his ribs. And the archers must reload faster. Much faster. Their aim was not bad, but they took an eon to reload.

As commander, Victor was the only one on horseback, until the sound of galloping hooves made him turn in his saddle. The sight of Achilles, in his tunic with a blue cloak thrown casually over it, leaning forward over the bay’s black mane and headed straight for him, made a glow rise up in his chest and an involuntary smile spread over his face.

Achilles pulled up close to him. “This Odoacer is closer than I realized,” he said without preamble. “I’m told he maintains troops at Pescara, and it’s two days travel at most across the sea.”

Victor smiled. “Oh yes. The days of your youth, when a Roman attack meant a month by sea and bribes to pass through the straights of the Messana, were over 500 years ago. They can launch from anywhere on the peninsula.”

Achilles nodded seriously, but the increased smile told him that Victor had been teasing him about being 500 years old. He gave a bit of a smirk. He was probably 1500 years old, in point of fact, but between the interventions of the sea-god and the tonics of his mother, he considered himself a lad of 100.

“Is there any way to be warned when they launch?” He asked.

Victor shrugged. “Knowing Ovida, we have a few small, fast boats in the water offshore that can give us a few hours warning.”

Achilles nodded. A few hours might be enough. He looked around at the training units and focused on those training with swords. “They need work,” he commented.

Victor nodded. “Until recently, our troops were merely nominal. Citizens who would train occasionally, in case of emergency. For years, we were in no particular danger. Good trading relationships with everyone, an understanding with Rome about our relative independence. But now…”

Achilles dismounted, and so Victor did too, beckoning one of the boys who lingered about the edges, wishing to be old enough to fight. “Can you mind the horses? Take them just over there, away from the archers. Keep hold of the reins, now. Here, get another boy to help you.”

Together, they walked over to where Gaius was training a group of men, most of whom held their sword like an ax and knew how to hack with it, and little else. But two or three showed promise. One, indeed, a lanky but strong fellow with a bold set of teeth, seemed eager to show how much promise he had.

Achilles watched him spar with a blunted sword against a young fellow with blue eyes like Gaius. They were both having rather more fun than he felt was appropriate, given the circumstances.

“Are you trying to tickle him to death?” He called, removing his cloak.

The men lowered their swords and looked affronted. The lanky fellow gave Achilles a once over that clearly said _who in Hades are you?_

“Achilles,” Gaius greeted him, and the temptation was apparently too much for the toothy one.

“Achilles?” He laughed. “How’s your heel?”

Achilles tipped his head slowly and stared at the other. Then he removed his sword and knife, and handed them with his cloak to Victor. Stepping over to the blue-eyed lad, he plucked the blunted sword from him and began circling the mouthy challenger.

“Why don’t you come see how my heel is?” He said it calmly enough, but had anyone who knew him been nearby to see his face darken and his eyes pale, they would have cleared the area. “And what is your name?” He asked pleasantly.

“Ajax,” the toothy fellow said mockingly.

The sky seemed to grow a bit darker, and the air a bit cooler.

“Ajax would have used you to pick between his teeth.” Achilles said with a little smile, but his eyes were growing paler by the minute. “Speaking of such, what do you use, a spike?”

A wave of amusement ran through the crowd. “His name is Max,” someone called. 

“Really?” Achilles said. “Is that short for Maximus Dentes?”

Now the grinning soldiers were leaving off their training to gather around. Max, losing his taste for taunting someone about a body part, raised his sword and made a threatening swipe or two in the air to show off his form.

“I’m over here,” Achilles said to the laughter of the onlookers, and beckoned. “Come, let’s introduce my heel to your teeth.”

“You don’t have a shield,” Max said, bringing his own around before him. It was rectangular, rather than the round ones of Achilles’ day.

“I won’t need one against you,” the Greek said calmly.

Max flushed, eyebrows raised. “We’ll see.”

They began. It was evident from the first seconds that Max was a puppy fighting a lion. Watching Achilles move was akin to watching an ominous pagan dance performed by a golden statue come to life. There was no effort in his movements, and his strength was seen more in the results than in the application. He didn’t just block blows, he sent them bouncing backward with more force than they’d landed.   
His speed was such that he beat dents into the shield even as Max rallied to take another swing. Soon Max was falling back, and back, and the crowds of howling spectators fell back behind him, and tightened behind Achilles, and the entire pulsing circle turned oblong, and moved across the field as Achilles pressed forward.

Victor, following, watched with wide eyes, but found that he wasn’t particularly surprised to find that the man who could press seashells into gold and throw knives like lightning bolts could also fight with a sword.

Gaius watched with even more intensity. He had a strange feeling in his gut. He looked up and saw that the clouds seemed darker, the wind was picking up, and no one noticed but he. He had a confused sense that the weather was somehow responding to the events on the field. But that was nonsense. Wasn’t it?

Pressing in, Achilles swept his sword up in a blow that hit so close to the hilt, the force sent it flying from Max’s hand and rotating in the air. It was a move Hector would have recognized. Achilles watched it spin and when it came down, he caught it in his left hand by the handle. The spectators let out shouts of amazement and glee. They had never seen such a performance! 

Now Achilles pressed in with both swords, battering Max’s shield with such speed the blows could hardly be tracked, and with such force it began to crumple in the middle. The whoops of admiration gave way to the silence of wide-eyed trepidation. This did not seem quite human.

The blue-eyed boy, certain that his friend was about to be murdered, yelled, “Stop!! Stop!! Stop!!” But he was yelling in a language that Achilles wouldn’t have understood even if he’d noticed it. And he didn’t notice it. He was in full destructive mode, and though he was still cogent enough to remember that this was only training, and his rival was no true enemy, only a simple local fellow, he was most certainly going to ensure that remarks about his heel and his long dead friends were kept well away from his ears.

The shield was folding and Max was on the ground beneath it when the blue-eyed boy, panicking, grabbed a nearby javelin and in desperation, hurled it at Achilles. 

“NO!” Victor yelled, reaching too late to stop the boy. Even if it missed Achilles, it would likely take out whoever was just beyond him.

Achilles turned his head, ducked, and one arm flashed back with the sword, smashing the javelin to the ground, broken, in a single swing.

Belatedly, those in the javelin’s aborted path ducked instinctively, and then slowly straightened. There was a stunned stillness in the air. A mist seemed to form on the field, as if made by the exhalations of seventy frightened men.

Achilles stared at the blue-eyed boy with a feral gleam, and Gaius quickly put himself in front of the boy.

“Please, Sire, he’s my brother. He’s my brother, Sire, please,” he carefully didn’t raise his voice, but his hands were up in pleading.

Achilles prowled toward them, face dangerously blank. He was not even out of breath. For a long moment he stared at them both. Then he spoke to the boy, cowering behind Gaius’ shoulder.

“You should bless your brother’s eyes,” he said cryptically, and then turned back to Max.

“Do you have anything more to say about my heel?” He asked. His voice was very quiet, but in the misty stillness of the shocked tableau of frozen spectators, it was perfectly audible.

Max panted under the crumpled shield, as wide-eyed as the rest of them. He apparently had nothing more to say about anything.

Achilles lifted his arms and brought them down hard and fast, sticking both training swords into the dirt, deep. 

Then he stalked out of the circle—men fell back before him as if he carried the plague—and went to his horse. He leapt on it like a cat and rode off the field, yellow hair blowing back like a banner.

There was silence behind him until one man said, “That’s an assassin.”

Victor and Gaius looked at each other. There was no point in arguing.


	9. Aftermath

They cleared the field before the rain came. It wasn’t difficult. The men could not wait to get home to their wives and friends, and give a long and elaborate account of what they had seen, and what it portended.

Victor stood on the stoop and reached for the door to his rooms slowly. He didn’t know if he hoped to find Achilles there, or hoped to find Achilles gone. 

His men were in a state. That shocking display on the field had convinced them of a couple things: one, that Julius Nepos was murdered by a man—or something—who was apparently very close to Count Victor, meaning, essentially, in their minds, Count Victor had Nepos murdered, and Count Ovida was undoubtedly a part of the plot. 

From there, they divided into the camp who approved; they did not need to go fight in Rome, and the camp that did not; you don’t kill kings like that, and how did they know that Ovida would be any better?

Issue number two was that Achilles had made clear today how abysmally, woefully, sadly unprepared they were to fight. Victor had been rallying troops and training them for a year to the best of his ability, but short of a conscription, Dalmatia did not have a large contingent of men eager to be part of a standing army. They saw no need. As a nominal part of Rome, they expected no attack from outsiders. As a fairly independent entity, they had no resentment against Rome, and no desire to fight her. Why, then, be part of an army?

Thus, they had few fighters of any note. Max had been one of the better ones. Max was now a quivering wreck, having been given a brutal lesson in his own inadequacy. And were they to stand against Odoacer? who, rumor had it, was on his way to crush them because of the murder of Nepos, which of course, took them right back to Count Victor and Count Ovida. That blond assassin, clearly hired by one or both of them, started this whole mess. Rome was coming to finish it. And them.

Victor had done his best to calm them, but what could he say? Whether it had been Achilles or Count Ovida that had killed Nepos meant very little to the men. The three of them all seemed birds of a feather: rich men with ambition who had just brought Rome down on all their heads. Victor was popular with the men, which was why they weren’t burning the annex this very moment, but the situation was tense.

Gaius, meanwhile, seemed to have gone full mystic on him. He was completely ready to believe that the Greek was a demi-god, come to either save them or warn them or destroy them, and he wasn’t sure which it was, but there was no point resisting because fate had spoken. Now he was going to spend time with his family, and drink.

Thus Victor was coming alone back into his own rooms, carrying Achilles’ cloak and weapons that he’d abandoned on the field in his fit of temper. Part of him wanted Achilles to be there, to answer his questions, to stare into his eyes, to be this magical creature and dazzle him into a belief that all of this was part of a cosmic pattern in which Victor bore little personal responsibility. Part of him wanted Achilles to be gone so he could think what to do next, and disassociate himself from the murder of Nepos.

Victor paused for a moment, wondering which he hoped for more. He imagined the empty rooms, and assessed how he felt at the thought. Then he imagined Achilles there, waiting for him with those inscrutable blue eyes. Yes, he hoped Achilles was there.

Victor opened the door. Achilles was there, sitting at the table.

He entered and closed the door, not sighing. Achilles looked guiltily up at him. 

“Who are you?” Victor asked plaintively, begging with his eyes for the truth.

“Achilles.”

“But… who _are_ you?”

The warrior looked at him again. “Achilles!”

Victor stepped to the table and looked at the books. He touched the top one and looked questioningly at the blond.

“Most of that is nonsense,” Achilles muttered, looking away. He drummed his fingers restlessly on the table.

Victor thought for a moment. “Why me?”

Achilles stopped drumming his fingers and looked up at him, seeming to assess his readiness to hear certain things. The conclusion he came to seemed a mitigated one.

“Look,” he said, with the air of someone unwillingly delivering bad news. “You have no real army. That pitiful bunch of farmers, you can dress them up and stand them in rows, but when the time comes, they will be mowed down like hay. Only your archers are worth anything, and that won’t be enough. If Julius Nepos was going to try to take that bunch away from their families and off to fight in Rome, your friend Ovida’s reaction is … understandable. Somewhat.”

Victor sat down slowly, eyes on the table. Nothing Achilles said truly surprised him. Shock, yes. Surprise, no.

“Now, it’s unlikely this Odoacer is going to burn Salona completely to the ground. He’s simply going to wipe out the army, overrun the palace, take out Ovida, install… whomever… and life will go on. But you… you are neck deep in Nepos’ murder even though you are as innocent as a child, as far as I can see.”

Victor raised his eyes to him, a bit offended… but only a bit. His shoulders slumped and he lowered them again. “I don’t know what to do,” he confessed simply. 

“Come with me. We leave tonight. I’ve already arranged for a boat.” Achilles said flatly.

Victor looked at him again. “No, I cannot. I cannot leave my country, my father, my men—“ he gestured toward the world outside his door. “My men will be slaughtered!”

Achilles nodded. “That’s going to happen either way. My concern is that you are not slaughtered along with them.”

There was a knock at the door. Victor rose wearily and went to answer it. A soldier, not Gaius, not one Achilles recognized, was there with a missive, folded and sealed with wax. The soldier glanced past Victor and his eyes widened at the sight of the warrior. Then he backed away from the door, bowed, and left.

Victor brought the missive back to the table and opened it. “It’s from Ovida,” he reported. “The Romans have launched and will probably be here by morning. Ovida wants me up at the palace for dinner this evening to consult,” he kept reading, lips moving slightly.

“Dinner? The Romans are coming and he’s having dinner?” Achilles pointed at the letter. “He’s either mad as a staggering dog, or he doesn’t expect to have to fight. If he doesn’t expect to have to fight, it means he intends to have something to give this Odoacer that will pacify him.”

Victor didn’t respond, still reading.

“Do not go up there,” Achilles said firmly.

Victor’s eyes widened as he read. “My father will be there. He’s been invited.”

“Invited?” Achilles said uneasily. “Is that Dalmatian for _arrested?”_

“I have to go.” Victor said.

“No. No you do not,” Achilles was getting agitated.

Victor nodded. “He’s got my father; I have to go.”

He stood, and Achilles stood with him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Dinner, it says. You have…. What, two hours? Wait.”

Victor stared pleadingly at him, and Achilles felt that he was somehow willing him to fix this.

“Come, let’s lie down and just rest for a bit,” Achilles took Victor’s hand and led him back to the bedroom. He shucked off his sandals and rolled into the bed. His Hector removed his belt and sandals and joined him. 

Hector lay on his back, and Achilles lay on his side, facing him. He placed a hand on his beloved’s stomach and watched his breathing speed up, just a tiny bit.

“Why me, you still haven’t answered.”

Achilles smiled slightly. “What did you say about your mother’s name for you?”

“Hector—“ Victor’s eyes widened and he lunged from the bed, staring at Achilles.

“You’re here to kill me! You think I’m him! You are mad.” Victor pointed at him.

Achilles flopped back on the bed in exasperation. “I didn’t kill Hector! I didn’t kill your king! I’ve killed hundreds of men, literally hundreds, but not those two, now come back here!”

Victor held one of the posts of the canopy for a moment, staring at him, and then gave way to helpless laughter. “This is all mad. This is mad. I must be losing my senses.”

Achilles relaxed a bit. “Yes. It is, isn’t it?”

Victor sat at the foot of the bed, leaning against the post, and regarded him. “So just tell me. Who are you, who do you think I am, and why are we here?”

Achilles regarded him for a bit, and then smiled softly. “Forget what you read. Those stories are made up of remnants of bits of gossip and lies from centuries ago. Hector was my love. He is still my love. I find him, I love him, I care for him, and then eventually, he dies. And then I have to go find him again.”

Victor regarded him, listening. “Is this why you told me there’s a pattern?”

Achilles nodded. “He’s near a king, the king is overcome, his world crumbles, and I cannot stop it. I can only save him. I don’t know why he’s living this pattern. He doesn’t deserve such a fate. But there it is.”

“And you think I am your Hector now.” Victor said.

“There’s no thinking it. You are him. Identical in almost every way.”

Victor shook his head. “But I don’t know you. I don’t remember going through any of this.”

“I know,” Achilles said, looking away. 

There was silence. 

Then Victor said, “If what you are saying is true… Has it occurred to you that it’s not your Hector who is stuck in this pattern? It’s you who is stuck in it. It’s you that suffers.”

Achilles turned his eyes back to his beloved, lips parting in astonishment at this observation. He tried to absorb it, and then eventually abandoned the effort. It was too disturbing.

“But do you believe me?” He finally asked.

Victor shook his head, but it was in wonder, not denial. “I believe that you are no normal man. The way you move, the way you fight… how did you cut down that javelin in mid-air??”

Achilles gave a slight shrug of one shoulder. “It’s not something I think about. It’s something my body does when it’s in danger. It’s why I have no scars.”

Victor’s eyes widened slightly, and then ran slowly over him. “That’s the most unbelievable thing you’ve said so far,” he said challengingly, dark eyes suddenly pinning him.

Achilles blinked and then grinned. His Hector was flirting with him! He sat up and whipped off his tunic in one smooth motion, and whisked away his small clothes with the next. Then he rose to his knees in the center of the bed, glad that he had bathed while he’d waited for Victor, glad that he’d oiled his skin and made himself as sweet and clean as possible.

“Gaze and admire,” he commanded with a smirk, spreading his arms.

Victor did just that, his own smile fading in wonder as he searched the perfect golden skin over the smooth, rippling muscles. He reached forward carefully and traced his fingers over one perfect shoulder and down his chest. Achilles closed his eyes in bliss.

“You are beautiful,” Victor breathed, coming also to his knees to touch Achilles with both hands. For a long moment they knelt, facing each other, Victor running his fingers all over this god in his bed, over the thick, supple muscles of his wide back, down to the thin, warm skin of his waist and hips.

Feeling almost drugged with the pleasure of his beloved’s worshipful awe, Achilles let his head drop on his Hector’s shoulder and put his face into the warm neck. He felt the long fingers go into his hair and slide through it slowly.

“Amazing,” Victor whispered, and suddenly moved forward to bear this golden armful back onto the bed. Achilles let himself fall backward in unaccustomed abandon. Ardently, his Hector kissed the warm flesh at the juncture of Achilles’ neck and shoulder, and down his chest to a small, pink nipple.

Achilles arched his back, eyes wide. In their years together, Hector had always been the beloved. The Greek was the aggressor, the lover, the one who wanted and hungered. Hector was the feast, sometimes resisting, gradually succumbing, finally surrendering in writhing ecstasy, but always at the mercy of Achilles’ mouth and hands and body.

Victor, however, was now ardently mouthing his way toward the straining cock that had never felt his mouth before. Perhaps it was a residue of Hector’s initial resistance to kissing him, but Achilles had always preferred to keep that mouth as a sacred receptacle for his loving tongue and nothing else. But now—to look down and see the thick, dark curls and wide shoulders as Victor’s arm wrapped commandingly around Achilles’ hips—he was overcome.

When he felt the wet heat of his beloved’s mouth and tongue caressing his straining flesh, his head fell back and his arms rose up like a drowning man’s. His breath came faster than any combat had ever provoked. Every inch of the delicate, sensitive skin of his cock was under relentless attack by the laving tongue and soft suction of his lover’s mouth. Achilles let out a groan of wonder, bringing his hands down to fondle Victor’s head.

His lover tightened his grip around the powerful hips that now writhed helplessly beneath him, swallowing him deeper and deeper. The sensation was stunning, and inarticulate cries choked in his throat as Victor drew back and then sucked him down again. Achilles’ stomach muscles tightened into razor-like definition as he curled up off the bed over the dark, curly head. 

“Stop, stop—I’m coming, stop,” he stammered, hardly knowing what he was saying, only knowing he didn’t want to profane that mouth with his bodily fluids.

Victor pulled off and came up to him, eyes heavy and dark with passion, and replaced his mouth with one practiced hand. 

“Come, then. Come,” he whispered, fondling him with quick jerks, and watching as the blue eyes closed. The blond hair pooled on the pillow as Achilles’ head fell back, and his long throat convulsed with silent cries as he came.

Victor cupped his hand to gather up the juices, and rubbed them on his own straining cock, gazing down at the panting god on his sheets. When he came, he shuddered and dropped his mouth to one tight nipple, and mouthed it until the waves of ecstasy rendered him unable to move.

Finally, they were both limp and satisfied against each other, their breathing in synchronicity. When Victor could move, he wiped his hand slowly on his rumpled tunic, and then pulled it off and pitched it to the floor, wanting to be naked against his lover.

Achilles finally opened his eyes and gazed in limpid adoration at his Hector, taking his finger to run it under the indention beneath the lower lip of that mouth he’d always cherished. 

“I’ve never seen you without a beard,” he commented quietly.

Victor gave him that sweet smile he loved and said nothing.

For a several more peaceful moments, they gazed on each other, fingers finding artistic planes to caress and stroke.

Then suddenly Achilles grew a faint scowl. “Where did you learn how to do that,” he demanded pettishly.

Victor looked pleased. “I haven’t spent the last 30 years in a tree,” he murmured.

Achilles wondered if that was a local saying. “From this moment forward, I am your only tree,” he informed his Hector seriously.

Victor laughed at him. “That makes no sense at all,” he told him delightedly. Then his smile faded as he looked around at the shadows growing in the room. “It’s getting late.”

Giving Achilles one last, long pet on his arm, running his fingers over his lover’s hand, and dropping a kiss on his chest, Victor rolled over and sat up.

“I must go to the palace and at least see if Ovida has a plan that will save all three of us.” 

Achilles rolled his eyes. “I don’t need saving,” he stated.

Victor turned his head. “I mean Ovida, my father, and me. I am certain you don’t need saving,” he added wryly. Then he got up and went to his trunk to draw out clean garments. Achilles admired the curve of his back and the indentation of his haunch. And those buttocks, just round and fleshy enough to draw a doting eye.

“I don’t want you to do any such thing,” Achilles told him. “I want you to come with me. I found the inlet on the east side of the palace which, I presume, was the king’s emergency escape route by water if ever need arose. Need has arisen. I have a fishing boat waiting there.”

“A fishing boat,” Victor stated. “I thought a golden, flying chariot at least,” he grinned.

Achilles gave a snort. “Fishing boats are the perfect camouflage. No one gives them a thought. You can paddle right between a battalion of triremes and they barely glance at you.”

Victor pulled on a tunic and long robe, and wrapped his belt around his waist. “I know the inlet you found. I’ll meet you there at sunset, if I can get my father out of the palace.”

Achilles simmered quietly. There was no acceptable way to tell a man, _Your father is old and either he’s going to die or he’ll deny or abandon you to save himself, but either way there is no point concerning yourself about him._

Finally he sighed. “Tell me the lay-out of the palace. If you are not at the boat when the sun sets, I’m coming in after you.”

Victor turned to face him, eyes suddenly worried. “No,” he said firmly. “Don’t do that. If I don’t come, it means I have negotiated something with Ovida, and we are prepared to negotiate with Odoacer together. If the only way to save my father and my country is to support his claim about the ‘mysterious blond assassin,’ I don’t want you anywhere near.”

Achilles spread his hands. “And what do I do? Leave you here?”

“No, no,” Victor came forward and took his hands, and kissed them. “No, you only need to hide until the Romans leave again.”

Achilles shook his head. “This will not work. I have been through this before, this... this hope of success against a greater force. This will not work. Agamemnon prevailed, Caracalla prevailed, this Odoacer will prevail, and the world as you know it is over.”

Victor listened, and then fixed his beautiful dark eyes on his lover and said, “I promise you, that the moment I can see that you are right, I will grab my father and drag him down to your fishing boat.”

Achilles ground his teeth in frustration and finally decided, _Sleep._ He reached for Victor’s forehead, and Victor bent backward agilely and danced away from his hand.

“No, no,” he wagged his finger at Achilles knowingly, “No sleep! Trust me!” And then he left the room quickly, leaving Achilles kneeling naked on the rumpled sheets of the bed with his fists clenched.


	10. Victor

Victor mounted the steps to the palace, eyes forward and fixed. Already, the word was sweeping through Salona that the Romans were coming. He expected that the white sails would be visible before the sun went down. 

The streets were teaming. People who lived near the palace were decamping to homes of relatives on the city’s edges. People with country villas were streaming out the gates on their way to their estates. The walls of Salona were barrier enough against random pirates who roamed the seas, and bands of thieves who roamed the countryside, but this was the Roman Empire, on its way to their front gate. Victor wasn’t even sure there would be an army to meet them.

Yet, the palace was brightly lit, torches and candles all blazing in their accustomed places. Guards stood at attention, although Victor could see the fear in their eyes as he passed them. As he drew closer, he saw that the appearance of normalcy did not hold up. Servants darted around the palace, items of value in their hands, and Victor didn’t know if they were hiding the priceless vases for safety, or looting them. No one was in the courtyard to receive him as he approached. 

Looking around, Victor saw that at the far end of the courtyard, up the stairs, between the columns, near the fire pit, there were four figures: two uniformed, armed guards, his father, and Count Ovida. They were clearly waiting for him.

Swallowing, Victor drew his sword in readiness and approached. There was every chance those guards would decide, if choose they must, they would choose Victor over Ovida.

“So kind of you to join us,” Ovida called as Victor approached. “You’ve been such a stranger since I last saw you at the villa. I’d expected at least that you would pay a congratulatory visit here at the palace.”

Victor mounted the steps without comment. His father looked at him sadly and shook his head, as if to say, _ I know not what to do to help us._ Or perhaps he was saying, _I wish you had not come to try and save me._ Father and son exchanged a look of commiseration.

Ovida said, “If only you had been more supportive, my friend, none of this would be necessary.”

“Sire,” called a guard from behind Victor. “Sire, the lookout has said to tell you, he can see the Roman sails. They stretch out across the rim. There are too many to count.”

Ovida’s beady eyes looked past Victor and nodded at the guard. Then he returned his cold gaze to the young count.

“I hope you planned for that many guests,” Victor said lightly, staring him down.

“Oh, I did.” Ovida said. “I know just what I’m going to serve them.”

Achilles waited by the boat, watching the sun sink just beyond the palace. He didn’t care what Victor said, the instant the last rays of sun vanished, he was going up the path, through the gardens, up the side entrance, and into that palace. He’d search every inch of the place if he had to. 

He turned to look up the coast. The blur at the horizon was undoubtedly destiny coming with torches. Fishing boats and family yachts were launching from the shore to vacate Salona. Unlike Troy, when the inhabitants huddled inside the walls and believed the army would save them, Dalmatians apparently knew that walls and gates were not magic, and their army was pitiful. Achilles was wryly glad to know that people actually did learn as time went by. Everyone but Hector seemed to learn, that is. Hector did not know when to run. 

The warrior watched the sun sink and drew his sword. Victor was not coming. He shook his head in frustration: once again he found himself thinking I should have… I should have… The sun sank. Face set in a glower, Achilles headed toward the palace. He was going to grab Victor, slap his hand on that perfect, square forehead, bark “SLEEP!” and carry him away. Father was on his own.

Up the path. Through the gardens. Achilles’ eyes swept the grounds, hoping yet to see Victor running toward him, dragging a stumbling old father with him. All he saw were guards abandoning their posts and running from the palace to warn their families. Abandoning one’s post would draw a death sentence from their king, but their king was dead and Ovida looked very much like he would be meeting Odoacer alone.

Achilles marched up the steps. He felt he knew exactly what Ovida planned. He wouldn’t be meeting Odoacer alone, he’d be meeting him with a human sacrifice, probably in chains, _Here, Sire, I arrested the murderer! Take him back to Rome for sentencing, and I’ll just watch over things here for you, shall I?_ Achilles snorted. How Victor trusted that fellow to do anything else, he did not know. He could only wonder if there was still some small part of his lover that held onto the thought that Ovida had not killed Julius Nepos. But to do that, he’d have to be willing to think that Achilles did.

The warrior shook his head. Worry about this later. Right now, the task was simple. Find his Hector and vacate.

Achilles ran through the torchlit courtyard, eyes searching rapidly. They lit upon two crumpled figures by a fire pit at the far end, and one retreating one vanishing into the depths of the palace behind them.

“Victor!” He shouted, running up the steps to the crumpled figures. There lay the patrician scholar, eyes sightless, arms flung out, blood pooled under him but none on his front. Stabbed in the back, Achilles knew. Then he turned his eyes to the other figure. Victor lay in a puddle of blood, the hilt of a knife protruding from his chest. His sword was still in his hand, but it didn’t look as though he’d had a chance to use it. Ovida was a more efficient assassin than Victor had accounted for.

Achilles knelt at his side and drew his lover into his arms, face creased with tension.

Victor opened his pain-filled eyes and stared up at him. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I should have listened…” his voice faded.

“Don’t worry,” Achilles said briefly. He grabbed the hilt and yanked the knife out, blood spilling over his fingers as he pressed them to the wound. He closed his eyes, focused, and began._ Heal. Heal. Heal. Heal._ He chanted in his mind.

“Oh, it doesn’t hurt now,” he heard Victor breathe, and felt him move his hand up to touch Achilles’ hand. His hand was cold with shock.

Achilles nodded briefly, eyes still closed, feeling the touch of that cold hand, and pressed harder. _Heal. Heal…_

After a moment, he opened his eyes and parted the ripped cloth to see the wound. The blood had stopped flowing. He looked up at Victor’s face, peaceful in the firelight twilight. He seemed to be staring off into space pensively. He was very still.

Achilles’ eyes widened, and he stared at the wound again. It wasn’t bleeding. But it wasn’t closed, either. It wasn’t healed. The heart had simply stopped pumping out the blood.

“No, no, no,” he moaned, and put his hand to it again, pressing hard. _HEAL! HEAL! LIVE! LIVE! HEAL!_

Victor lay heavy in his arms, unmoving. Achilles tried again and again, but it was as futile as reviving Philip. 

The warrior threw back his head and let out a howl of anguish. His face was red and his eyes were pale and unseeing. He cradled his Hector to him. Then he scooped him up and carried the body down the stairs. He wasn’t giving up. He certainly wasn’t leaving him to be some sort of ransom or goodwill gesture by Ovida for the Romans.

In the darkening shadows, the warrior charged through the garden, carrying Victor as though he weighed little more than a child. Achilles made his way to the boat and laid the body in it. Then he settled in it himself and rowed free of the shore. Using all his power, he hauled the oars through the waves until the fishing boat was bobbing far from shore.

Then Achilles returned to his panicked ministrations, gathering the long, limp body into his arms again. He pressed one hand to Victor’s chest and one to his back, and imagined compressing the heart between them, pressing rhythmically, his face pushed to Victor’s face. _Heal! Live! Breathe! Live!_

The night grew dark over the huddled figure in the boat, clutching its lifeless treasure, and convulsing in racking sobs. Eventually, Achilles grew still and dozed off in exhausted misery, arms still around the cloaked and bloodied form.

At some point near dawn, Achilles raised his aching head and looked down with swollen eyes on the perfect, still pallor of his Hector. This was the third time now. And to see the hair still black, the face still young, and know that this was the end for him gave him a pain in his throat like a knife. He swallowed, and swallowed again, trying to ease it.

Looking up, he saw the fires glowing from the municipal buildings around the palace of Salona. They probably wouldn’t burn that much. Just enough to make a statement, and destroy the city’s own managerial records and infrastructure. Replace it with their own, Roman auditors and officials. For the average citizen, after some months of upheaval and a few executions, life would go on.

Achilles looked down at the form in his arms. For this, had Victor been sacrificed. For who collected the taxes, and who decreed the use of the army.

Sitting in the bobbing boat, once again, watching the glow as the sky lightened, Achilles held his Hector—having failed—and asked himself if there was anything he had given Victor. An extra week of life? For certainly Ovida had planned to kill him that day in the villa. One amusing night of drinking, one afternoon of love, he’d given him that. A chance to say goodbye to his father. But still, his fate was so unfair, so wrong a destiny for such a kind and decent soul.

Finally, Achilles remembered what Victor had said to him. _Is it I who is caught in the pattern? Not him, but me? Do I hold us both in this cycle? And why? If I let him go, and die, will it be over? Will I release us both?_

Victor’s face looked peaceful. Achilles let the tears slip down as he gazed at it. Mightn’t that peace be his as well? Gently, he stripped off the bloody cloak, and removed the belt. Then he took off his own as well. Finally, cradling the body of his love, he turned and tipped backward over the edge of the boat, landing with a splash in the cold water.

Wrapping himself around Victor, bringing the dark curly head to lay against his shoulder, he waited to sink.

The water seemed to hold him up.

Achilles let his head tip back and looked up at the sky. Was it the sea-god holding him there? He didn’t know, but he didn’t have the energy to rage, or fight. He closed his eyes and held Victor. He’d just float until he sank or grew too cold for his body to support it.

For a long while, he hung in the water, holding Victor. The coldness of the water eased the pain in his heart and throat, numbed it. Then, at last, he felt the even colder fingertips of the sea-god’s channel coming up on his feet and legs, rising to his thighs and hips. Automatically, despite his willingness to drown, Achilles took a deep breath and felt himself pulled under and into one of the familiar cold channels by which the sea-god moved him. Maybe he was going back to his mother’s island? Maybe his mother had stronger magic than he, and Victor could still be saved?

He felt the thrumming of the water battering him and the pressure of not being able to breathe faded as it always did. He was losing consciousness. He tightened his hold on Victor, but the sea was pulling Victor away, and as Achilles’ awareness faded, he felt his beloved slip from his arms, and he knew, there was no saving Victor. Victor would sink to the bottom of the sea, never to be known again… and Achilles hoped that he never woke again either.


	11. Thetis

“Here,” Nereus’ voice was a bare breeze in the morning, his nearly invisible face little more than vapors moving in the shape of head and eyes and mouth. “Dip your fingers into the water.”

Thetis dipped her fingers in the shallow wooden bowl of soapy water.

“Now make a ring with your finger and thumb and draw it out.”

“Like this?”

“They must be closed. You need a film—“

“Oh, like to blow a bubble?” She asked curiously. The morning sun was barely cresting. It was not yet the best time to see her father, but she had called him early, wanting as much time as possible, in case there was begging and pouting to be done. A daughter might beg and pout with her father, mightn’t she? Without too much loss of dignity?

She drew her fingers out of the dripping, soapy water, and blew gently, causing a bubble to form. But it popped, and she gave an irritated grimace.

“You need more soap,” her father sighed in the breeze.

Thetis dipped the soap in the water again and worked it with both hands. 

The second try was much better, and the bubble grew and grew. Her father waited till it was the size of a large melon, and then reached down with his fingers of vapor and sealed it, lifting it from her hands.

“Now,” he said, and she held up thin golden plate he’d instructed her to create.

He placed the bubble on the plate and blew on it. It grew more solid, as if the bubble had frozen into the thinnest of ice, but clear.

Thetis lay the crystallized bubble on the nearest large stone.

“Careful. If it falls, it will break.” Her father warned her.

She nodded, put her fingertips on the surface of the crystal, and peered into it, watching as it grew dark inside, and shapes began to appear. “Oh,” she said, “oh no. Oh, he’s lost his Hector, he couldn’t save him.”

Nereus nodded slowly.

“Did he do something wrong?” She asked him.

“I don’t know,” the apparition said softly.

“Did Hector do something wrong?”

“You sound like a child,” the breeze whispered, “thinking that if you make no mistakes, you never will die.”

“I’ve never died,” she pointed out coolly.

“Despite your mistakes,” he smiled down on his daughter.

She gave him a look and then peered into the ball again. “I see him on a new beach, lying face down in the sand.”

Nereid nodded. “River in Andalusia.” To her unspoken question, he added, “West. Far, far west.”

“Why doesn’t he get up??”

“He is sad,” the god stated the obvious.

“Why didn’t you bring him back here first, so he could recover?”

“He doesn’t recover here. He stares into the fire pit and paces and cries in the night. Best to put him right to work again, to find and save his next Hector. Besides, they are coming more frequently now.”

“More Hectors?” Thetis asked, wondering why.

“More patterns of all type. There are more humans now, you know. The population grows and grows, and the patterns are repeated more and more often.”

She gazed into the ball again. “He’s still not moving.”

“Spoiled brat,” her father rumbled.

“You love your grandson,” she said reprovingly. “You didn’t let him drown himself.”

She felt the breeze of her father’s sigh. “I have become interested in his saga myself. He pursues his love as he once pursued fame. Such a simple animal, yet so unwavering.”

Thetis nodded, still watching. “Soldiers are coming,” she reported. “They’re poking at him with their spears.”

“Don’t worry. He’s stronger now than ever before.”

“Are you doing that?” She looked up to ask, but her father shook his head.

“It’s just happening. As he discovers more powers, and uses them, he grows as a god. He was a mere child when he began. But as his powers grow, so grows the dangers to his Hector. Perhaps he’s merely keeping pace.”

“They’ve chained him and put him in a cart with several others. He’s been snapped up like a naked slave!” Thetis looked offended.

“Don’t sit and watch that thing all day, you’ll get nothing done,” her father breathed, as the full sun hit his face.

“Yes, wouldn’t want to fall behind on my basket weaving,” Thetis said drily, not taking her eyes off the globe.

“Spoiled brat,” her father breathed once more.

“Oh, he’s not that bad,” she said, before realizing that her father meant her. She looked up, but he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part six is finished too, but it's bedtime. I'll post it as soon as I can.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing a fair amount of research for this and frankly, folks, it's kind of weird how many of these situations present themselves for my use. I almost wonder... =)


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